“I went home directly the bar here closed,” Jimmy said, in a still dazed tone. “I heard nothing about it till the next morning.” “Alibis by the bushel,” Fairfax laughed harshly. “As for me, I was doing my show--every one knows that. I was never in the place at all.” “The murder was not committed in the place,” Francis commented calmly. Fairfax slid off his stool. A spot of colour blazed in his pale cheeks, the glass which he was holding snapped in his fingers. He seemed suddenly possessed. “I say, what the hell are you getting at?” he cried. “Are you accusing me--or any of us Victor's pals?” “I accuse no one,” Francis replied, unperturbed. “You invited a statement from me and I made it.” Sir Timothy Brast rose from his place and made his way to the end of the counter, next to Fairfax and nearest Francis. He addressed the former. There was an inscrutable smile upon his lips, his manner was reassuring. “Young gentleman,” he begged, “pray do not disturb yourself. I will answer for it that neither you nor any of your friends are the objects of Mr. Ledsam's suspicion. Without a doubt, it is I to whom his somewhat bold statement refers.” They all stared at him, immersed in another crisis, bereft of speech. He tapped a cigarette upon the counter and lit it. Fairfax, whose glass had just been refilled by the bartender, was still ghastly pale, shaking with nervousness and breathing hoarsely. Francis, tense and alert in his chair, watched the speaker but said nothing. “You see,” Sir Timothy continued, addressing himself to the four young men at the bar, “I happen to have two special aversions in life. One is sweet champagne and the other amateur detectives--their stories, their methods and everything about them. I chanced to sit upstairs in the restaurant, within hearing of Mr. Ledsam and his friend Mr. Wilmore, the novelist, the other night, and I heard Mr. Ledsam, very much to my chagrin, announce his intention of abandoning a career in which he has, if he will allow me to say so,”--with a courteous bow to Francis--“attained considerable distinction, to indulge in the moth-eaten, flamboyant and melodramatic antics of the lesser Sherlock Holmes. I fear that I could not resist the opportunity of--I think you young men call it--pulling his leg.” Every one was listening intently, including Shopland, who had just drifted into the room and subsided into a chair near Francis. “I moved my place, therefore,” Sir Timothy continued, “and I whispered in Mr. Ledsam's ear some rodomontade to the effect that if he were planning to be the giant crime-detector of the world, I was by ambition the arch-criminal--or words to that effect. And to give emphasis to my words, I wound up by prophesying a crime in the immediate vicinity of the place within a few hours.” “A somewhat significant prophecy, under the circumstances,” Francis remarked, reaching out for a dish of salted almonds and drawing them towards him.